The afternoon sun on Day 70 fell in long, slanted ribbons across the upper charcoal bench, lighting up the black ash mound and the taut linen strings of the sixteen-pace Plot square.
Outside the circular firebreak ditch, Kezra Venn knelt beside the northwest dark grey rock boulder with her iron stone-chisel and horn-headed mallet. The rock was hard, crystal-clear, and dense. A fine-grained subalpine stone that rang with a clean, high note beneath the steel. With three rhythmic strikes, she drove the chisel half an inch into the rock face, blowing the gray stone dust away to reveal a sharp, three-inch three-sided anchor mark pointing true toward the center of the condensing chamber below.
She cut the northeast anchor. She cut the southwest.
Beside the cart, Fellis Dain pulled the four-sided iron sounding rods from the clay, wiped the shafts clean with an oiled rag. Then he strapped the canvas sheath tightly onto his pack frame. He raised the double-barred alder paddle above his shoulder. He held it steady against the green spruce boughs.
“Sounding rods stowed, Kezra!” Fellis called out. “Sheath buckled; zero iron in the dirt!”
“And the height checks?” Kezra asked, looking over her shoulder as she brushed stone powder from her knuckles.
